


Incomprehensibly

by Spiria



Category: Tales of Xillia
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-02
Updated: 2016-03-02
Packaged: 2018-05-24 07:52:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6146795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spiria/pseuds/Spiria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lin, a humble teacher stationed in Elympios with no recollection of his past, receives a call from a stranger who calls him "Wingul."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Incomprehensibly

**Author's Note:**

> For Mal. I've been working on this ever evolving concept for literal years and am finally writing it out, though I don't anticipate this being very long. Please enjoy!

_I need to see you_

Lin frowns. The sender is an unknown number, perhaps one of those “spam” messages he’s heard so much about. A second glance at the sender’s number doesn’t jog his memory. He holds the GHS on his lap, debating on his response.

He replies: _Who is this?_

Clearly it’s the wrong number, but what rakes its nails down his nerves is that he isn’t deigned a response for another two weeks. And once he’s in the middle of a dinner at the local restaurant, the message he receives completely ignores his.

_Marksburg_

Lin doesn’t write back. Snapping the GHS shut, he returns to his tea. He has better things to attend to – chiefly, the persistent throbbing in his head, now exacerbated by a seed of irritation.

He doesn’t believe in the superstition that the third time’s the charm, and so the anticipation of another misfire keeps Lin on his toes. He entertains the idea of blocking the number all of once, but a strangely intuitive side of him keeps his thumb hovering over the key to do so. The next cryptic message arrives in the afternoon during his tutoring hours.

_Duval_

_I hope this message reaches you this time_

His students watch him, their terminals bright and neglected, as Lin’s eyes narrow. For a ludicrous second, he considers heading down to Duval – and then what? He pockets the GHS and stands.

“Today’s session is over,” he says, turning away. His students methodically pack their things without protest. They’ve gone over all of the material, and their teacher is not predisposed to small talk.

More importantly, there’s a rubber banding sensation inside his skull. Lin briskly walks back to his apartment, where he swipes a bottle of analgesics off the stand at the entrance. He swallows a pair of tablets dry and presses his fingers against his temple. Within the hour, the throbbing would be back – and so, too, would be the indiscernible words in his mind, so familiar and yet utterly unrecognizable.

He rests at the couch with the news, jaw numb from the throbbing radiating all around his face, when the GHS vibrates against the glass surface of the coffee table. Lin’s eyes flicker over to the device. A chime sounds, and he pulls the message open.

_Did you see this?_

_I’ll be at the bar_

A drink appeals to Lin’s frustration. Even the rational part of him that should have argued against the notion for his health, amid the excruciating throb rattling his skull, wants wine. He steals his keys and heads down to the bar, the faint taste of a foreign delicacy teasing his tongue.

He gives the patrons of the bar a glancing once-over before sliding into a stool at the counter. Lin isn’t a frequent consumer at Film Noir, but its selection seldom changes, and he always orders the same drink. As he nurses his order, turning the glass to let the wine flow, he feels the GHS vibrating in his coat.

The mystery number that shouldn’t be so familiar greets him on the screen. Irate and perhaps driven by the wine (he’s also starting to feel drowsy), he answers, “What?”

Awkward silence comes from the other end. Lin opens his mouth to tell the caller off when a deep, powerful voice says, “My mistake. I seem to have called the wrong number.”

“You have. Now you should crosscheck your numbers once and for all, and perhaps you’ll stop making a fool out of yourself,” says Lin, leaning an elbow on the counter and massaging his forehead.

There’s another maddening pause. And again, at the moment Lin decides to hang up, the voice says quietly, “Wingul?”

Lin recognizes the name from recent historical texts. “What does a dead man have to do with this?”

“Nothing. I am sorry for troubling you. I assure you that it won’t happen again.”

“See that it doesn’t.”

True to the caller’s word, Lin receives no more misfired text messages for a good half of a year. What he does have in increasing frequency, however, are the splitting headaches that, one day, nearly drop Lin in front of his students. And then, when the students insist on an exotic outing to Leronde for their field trip, he collapses in the middle of the street from a sensation not unlike being struck in the head by a sledgehammer.

He awakes at the inn to his students crowding around him, the strange knot in his head gone. His students all rush to speak at once, but their words are jumbled and nonsensical. Shaking his head, Lin sits up and raises his hand in a gesture for silence.

His thoughts are murky, as though he’s wading through fog in his own mind. From the corner of his eyes, he glimpses his students parting like waves as a man cutting a fine figure in his fancy garb approaches. Lin turns to squint at the elderly man, who stares back in visible surprise.

“Could it be?” the elderly man gasps.

As naturally as breathing air, Lin, to his and everyone’s utter confusion, says, “Baai edin yaio?”

**Author's Note:**

> Takeaway for the chapter: Please do not consume alcohol with medication.


End file.
